. . . now you don't.
I was vacuuming a little while ago when I spotted a wasp walking on the living room floor. I picked up a piece of paper—a photograph of Jennie and her family, actually (hi, Jennie!)—and held it on the floor near him so he would walk onto it, which he did. Then I stepped outside and blew on him, thinking he would drop and land on one of the foxglove plants. That's what wasps tend to do this time of year.
Instead, my breath launched him into the air. He flew from the porch, past the Winesap apple tree, and over the hydrangea. I stood there, marveling at the miracle of flight, no less miraculous in its natural state than in a Pan Am jumbo jet, and ever so much more appealing. Isn't that something, I thought.
He flew past the green-and-brown remains of the flower garden, heading . . . well, we'll never know where he was headed, because after he passed the flower beds he flew into a truck.
I hope my vacuuming is more successful.